


The Parallel Lines Sometimes Meet Affair

by theladyrose



Category: Danger Man, Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossover, Gen, Time Shift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-27
Updated: 2009-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-20 03:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyrose/pseuds/theladyrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and Illya team up with John Drake of Danger Man/the Prisoner to investigate an innovation that could revitalize the international intelligence community.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So it begins

**Author's Note:**

> **Fandoms** : There's a tie-in to the James Bond movie _Goldeneye_ because I have a perverse sense of humor, and it seemed like an appropriate way to introduce the "updated" 60's feel, which I'll describe in a few moments. There are a few references to John le Carré if you squint, and some might say _the Prisoner_ , too.
> 
>  **Author's Note** : The title of this fic comes from a favorite _Danger Man_ episode of the same name where the British John Drake collaborates with a Russian agent for the first time. It seemed like an appropriate start for a cross-cultural spy partnership with our favorite agents from UNCLE; you'd think all of those 60's spies would run into each other at least once considering that there can only be so many megalomaniacs out there!
> 
> This story is set in a timeshifted alternative universe where both shows' events are still canon but have taken place in the present day; all events on MFU and DM have already happened before this story starts, but the agents haven't aged a day since their respective series' end (sounds a bit Austin Powers, I know). If you've read Bill Koenig's Timeshift Universe over at File 40, I'm borrowing that basic temporal perspective. The idea for this AU was to demonstrate that both MFU and DM could be successfully adapted for contemporary times without losing the spirit that made those shows such a joy to watch as bound as they are in their particular historical/sociocultural milieu.  
> I want to thank everyone whose kind words inspire me to keep writing. Much love to my muses Victoria, Valerie, Amy and Melissa.
> 
> I am forever indebted to M-9 and the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, without whose assistance I could not write this story.

**ACT I** : **Knights Errant**

 _London, England_

Caroline smiled as she watched the tall, fair man stride across the tiles of the lobby. To say that he was a welcome sight for her sore, slightly dry eyes would be a polite understatement.

Despite the air of exotic glamour imbued in the firm name, World Travel hardly attracted – with the exception of the man approaching her now – such physically striking employees. The harried, shadow-eyed men constantly looking over their shoulders were hardly those the PR department showcased in recruitment brochures. Agents were lucky to survive until middle age in this cutthroat business. Those who didn't suffer from burn out or occupational hazards were retired from the field after 55 and offered a cushy desk job within the vast agency administration. Others left to become well-paid consultants of dubious legality. Those in the last category were never spoken of, but their files were still kept in officially nonexistent archives of the personnel department "for future reference."

John Drake resembled none of the above, literally and figuratively. He easily stood out from the crowd at what the Americans would call 6'2" with his wavy, sandy hair, piercing blue eyes and sense of perpetual movement as his hands never kept still. Few men looked so trim in the dark overcoats he invariably wore, but a sharp, appreciative eye like Caroline's could detect the muscular contours beneath the well pressed white Oxford shirts. Though still relatively young, Drake carried himself with the authority of an agent with twice as much field experience.

Glancing at her reflection in the mirror-like steel caddy on her desk, Caroline hastily repositioned the fake tortoiseshell hair clip in her hair. "And how might I be able to assist you today, Mr. Drake?" She repressed her habitual urge to smooth out the slight curls at the nape of his neck.

"Ms. Gordon, there's no need for pretense. You and I both know that you just finished your call with Hobbs's secretary to confirm my meeting with him at 2 o'clock just as I entered the building. Would you be so kind as to hand me my elevator security pass?"

The old Caroline would've issued a playful retort, but the secretary quickly learned from observation and more firsthand experience than she'd care to admit that no amount of feminine wile could soften Drake's professionalism. She never was able to place his accent, a curious transatlantic cross of crisp, clipped British tones sharpened by a few Brooklyn-accented consonants. Drake once mentioned growing up on his family's farm in Ireland, but an illicit peek into his dossier revealed that he was born in New York before moving at age 6 back to the other side of the pond.

Certainly no one would ever identify him as an Englishman. Though known for his particular brand of honor, a timeless secular chivalry, Drake radiated the unmistakable aura of the perpetually world-weary traveler who saw more than he cared to reveal. Caroline couldn't call him inhospitable despite the perpetual tinge of irony underlying his words; nevetheless, she was well aware that Drake was a social chameleon whose appraising professional instincts were engaged in even in the most casual of exchanges. It was no agency secret that his code name was "lone wolf" – personable as he was, Caroline could never be sure how much his occasional bouts of affability were exercises in reeling in information. Still, she was certain that his interest was genuine.

"Of course, Mr. Drake." The secretary slipped him his World Travel ID card, which also doubled as a security pass allowing him to access the other floors in the elevator.

"I'm obliged." Drake flashed her a quick smile revealing slightly crooked teeth before heading towards the bank of elevators.

As the steel doors swallowed his figure, Caroline chided herself to stop aping Miss Moneypenny swooning after agent 007. Surely she was more sensible than her former colleagues in _that_ division. At least, the secretary vigorously assured herself, her interest was guided towards a more…professional direction this time. Drake would never nearly veer over a cliff while chasing a _femme fatale_ in the midst of a reinstatement evaluation. Caroline unconsciously let out the slightest of sighs.

After the elevator stopped on the 6th floor, Drake strode into the richly carpeted hallway and past the heavy walnut doors. He knew from experience that there was no point in knocking or employing traditional gestures of courtesy with his superiors. Most likely, they had been watching his every move since he entered the building from the hidden security CCTV screens embedded in their desks.

Hobbs waved the antique, brass-handled dagger he used as a letter opener at the chair facing his desk to indicate Drake to sit down. The craggy-faced man was respectfully feared by his agents as the co-chief of M-9, a subdivision of Britain's counterintelligence agency MI-6. Behind their superior's back, Hobbs's subordinates joked that the knives their boss was always fiddling with hinted that he was lacking in a certain area of the male anatomy.

Hobbs cast a steely glance at Drake before speaking. "As you may recall, Conrad Sachs was our chief archivist, responsible for updating and retrieving mission reports and individual dossiers from Nexus."

"As I recall, that would be our digital intelligence database that keeps track of our agents, their agents and the usual freelance rogues' gallery. Despite that I haven't had a vacation in three years, thanks to you, I'm still fully versed in the bureaucratic procedures of the home office."

Hobbs abruptly stopped twirling the letter opener in his hands and brandished the tip of the blade an inch away from Drake's nose. Characteristically, the agent did not even so much as blink at the gesture. "If you'd like to fill in the position of expenditures officer, I'd be more than happy to reassign you and let you personally reimburse all of those rebel factions whose bases you have destroyed, hotel managers whose rooms you've irrevocably damaged and civilians whose vehicles you've 'borrowed.'"

Drake's voice remained coolly sardonic as ever. "No thank you, Colonel. I think I'd rather sweat out another attempted coup in the Middle East rather than face the jungle of red tape here in the civilized world of espionage."

Hobbs' tone was as sharp as the dagger he had retracted from Drake's face a few moments ago. "This civilized world of intelligence, as you've dubbed it, Drake, has its own share of death traps. Conrad Sachs's body was found decomposing on the shoulder of an obscure road in northern California just yesterday."

The deceased colleague's stuffy-sounding name masked his easygoing nature; Sachs was one of the few senior officers whose sense of humor hadn't been excised by the grim nature of their work. Drake wondered who would be assigned the unpleasant task of returning Jamie and Sally's school portraits on the archivist's desk to the grieving widow.

"Sachs left four days ago to attend a conference in Silicon Valley. His last communiqué, sent two days before his death, indicated that he was on the trail of a major breakthrough that he claimed would revitalize the international intelligence community. Unfortunately, we suspect that the opposition intervened before he could send us any details. For all we know they actually have their hands on his discovery.

Drake, you will pick up where Sachs left off. Your flight to San Francisco leaves in three hours. This file contains all of the available information we have about Sachs's lead and your contact protocol." Hobbs set down the dagger for the first time since Drake had entered the room and handed him a manila folder.

The younger agent wordlessly packed the file into his black leather briefcase, the same one he had since he entered this business. Sachs had a virtually identical briefcase, except the archivist had his initials monogrammed in silver. Drake wondered if Sachs had brought it with him before taking off for San Francisco. Did Mrs. Sachs ever suspect that her husband wasn't really attending a librarians' conference?

His reverie was quickly shattered by the staccato of his superior's voice. "And for God's sake, Drake, don't get yourself killed because we're bleeding our budget enough as it is to break in new agents to replace the old. Her Majesty won't be pawning off the Crown Jewels to fund your mistakes."

"I'm glad to be reminded of my value to this organization," Drake drawled, not bothering to temper the edge of his sarcasm. He stood up and headed for the door. "Good afternoon, sir."

"Insubordinate cheek," Hobbs muttered to himself with briefly unrepressed affection.

 _New York City, UNCLE HQ_

Coming back from lunch in the commissary, numbers 2 and 11 of section 2 of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, New York division, were engaged in healthy debate over the latest summons from number 1, section 1.

"Perhaps you should have turned in your report on that last affair on time instead of two days after the deadline," dryly suggested the blond Russian.

"I thought it would be a more worthwhile endeavor to spend more of my time boosting morale in personnel. They have been rather overworked this past week," responded his dark haired colleague, hazel eyes twinkling.

Illya Kuryakin couldn't help but roll his startlingly blue eyes, the same ones that kept the secretary pool swooning when they weren't eying his partner. "I wonder what could have been occupying them. Did I miss the lecture on euphemisms in Survival School?"

Napoleon Solo grinned. "You were probably too busy testing out the newest explosives to even hear about our, ah, extracurricular activities."

Before Kuryakin could retort, the steel doors of the UNCLE chief's conference room slid open with a pneumatic hiss. Their craggy superior, Alexander Waverly, motioned them to sit.

"Gentlemen, I have a most vital state of affairs for you to investigate," the head of UNCLE New York announced.

Solo and Kuryakin traded skeptical looks. As much as they respected their superior, the partners' last several "vital" missions involved killer bees, sleeper assassin schoolgirls and dangerous dress patterns encoded with THRUSH communiqués.

If Waverly had noticed his agents' incredulity, he didn't show it. "No, we are not tricking THRUSH into buying the chemical formula of floor wax this time. Indeed, we are not foiling any THRUSH's current schemes. Instead, we're pursuing a lead that directly relates to our organization's mission of fostering international cooperation and harmony.

As you know, intelligence agencies suffer from gross miscommunication and, on an individual level, the inability to filter through and interpret the vast quantities of information they are able to collect with modern surveillance. Records can't be updated quickly enough to handle the constant deluge of intelligence, so agents aren't equipped with all of the necessary background to formulate the most effective mission plans.

As a result, we spend more and more of our time on paperwork to document and justify the excessive surveillance we need in our preliminary investigations before embarking on the actual operation. At this rate, we'll lose more of our agents to boredom than to field casualties. More importantly, as the ranks our enemies and allies become more global in scope, it is increasingly impossible to keep accurate tabs on any network."

Kuryakin picked up Waverly's train of thought. "I just read a technical journal feature about a new super database connected to a system capable of routing more encrypted information per second than any other in existence. The unusual aspect about this project was that it was developed by private enterprise without any known government research funding. Knight Enterprises plan to release the database for commercial use within the next three weeks.'

"Quite right, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly noted.

Solo, as much affection as he had for his partner, did not wish to be outshone in front of the man he was groomed to one day succeed. "If UNCLE had such a database, we could input all of our records onto one universally accessible system. As this database is capable of storing and transmitting huge quantities of data, all UNCLE branches would have immediate access to the most current information, thus freeing up couriers for more pressing tasks than monitoring wire taps. Soon, the rest of the intelligence community will want to jump on the bandwagon, considering the recent surge in popular criticism of bureaucratic inefficiency. Such a database would far outrival the capabilities of THRUSH's Ultimate Computer."

Waverly nodded. "Commendable deduction, Mr. Solo." The CEA couldn't help but let a toothy smile slip in spite of himself. Kuryakin looked amused by his partner's exposition but chose not to respond to his partner's attempts at one-upmanship. There were plenty of upcoming opportunities that catered to the Russian's expertise.

Waverly took over the briefing from his two leading enforcement agents. "Our only real lead so far is Jonathan Knight, the eponymous founder of Knight Enterprises. At the moment we believe that Mr. Knight is the brains behind this operation, but our knowledge of his organization is limited to annual reports and business news coverage. All pertinent intelligence is in the folders. Your mission is to acquire the database before THRUSH or another enemy agency does."

The agents quickly flipped through what they had been given; they'd study the available . "Well, sir, it's almost 8:30, and if we want to make the 11:20 United flight from JFK, Illya and I best grab our suitcases from our office now," Solo remarked. "We'll touch base and report any new developments once we land in California."

"Good day, gentlemen, and good luck," Waverly bade them. It was an added bonus to not have to send Solo to a dangerous location where he'd inevitably rack up more charges to his expenditure report on account of his wardrobe. Waverly sat back and let the aroma of Isle of Dogs No. 22 waft from his freshly lit pipe. For once, his agents could concentrate on the peaceful aspects of their business.

 _Somewhere in the American stratosphere_

Solo and Kuryakin silently perused their dossiers on board the plane to San Francisco. Luckily, their trusted agent at World Travel snagged the last two seats in business class after cashing in their excess frequent flyer miles for an upgrade.

Kuryakin spoke for the first time since takeoff. "Am I the only one who suspects that this is a THRUSH trap or, at the very least, a decoy for their real operation to unleash worldwide chaos?"

Taking a sip of his scotch and soda, Solo gave his partner a bemused smile. "Always the pessimist, Illya. It sounds like someone's found the time to crack open a volume of Tolstoy on top of all of those theoretical physics journals cramming your mailbox."

Kuryakin scowled in mock indignation. "At least Mr. Knight would appreciate my taste in literature. According to these records, Jonathan Sebastian Knight possesses one of the largest private book collections on in California."

Reading aloud from the documents in front of him, the Russian adjusted his thick black reading glasses and adopted an accent more befitting one of his Cambridge tutors. "Despite the aristocratic _nom de famille,_ Knight grew up in humble, working class neighborhood in Brooklyn where his schoolteachers detected his knack for the sciences at an early age. He studied electrical engineering and computer science at MIT, where he secured two patents while earning his undergraduate and master's degrees. The royalties allowed him to pay off his student loans quickly and convinced him of the business potential in the then up-and-coming Silicon Valley. There, Knight obtained his MBA from Stanford where he met his wife-"

Solo flipped to Mrs. Knight's profile, with a quick appreciative glance at the small but flattering black and white ID photo. "Catherine Isabelle, née Yang, heiress to her family's Hong Kong banking empire. She provided the initial capital to finance his enterprise and heads her own highly successful venture capital firm. It looks like they've been making good returns in more ways than one – by all accounts, they've been a happily married couple with three children."

Kuryakin took a moment to rub his glasses with a cloth from the right pocket of his gray sports jacket. Solo had given it to him as a gift after the red one he had worn undercover as a bass player been tattered to shreds by a THRUSH goon on a later mission. How Solo figured out his measurements to the nearest half-inch, Kuryakin wasn't sure if he wanted to know; his partner did have many "friends" in records. "Napoleon, I don't like the sound of this. Knight sounds like he stepped out of a Horatio Alger novel."

Solo noted how exhaustion had settled as dark circles under his partner's eyes and etched itself into the presently hunched curvature of his spine. The two had been working on several affairs back without even a hospital stay, normally reviled, to offer them a break. Under constant threat, it was no wonder that his cynical friend saw conspiracies sprouting everywhere.

"THRUSH prides itself in picking innocuous front companies, but I doubt Knight's group is one of them. For one thing, they'd never publicize the project as much as they have – look at how much attention they're attracting from rival firms and government clients. There's just too much public scrutiny; using transparency as a cover for such a large-scale project is too difficult to maintain. THRUSH is probably just as eager to get it as much as we are; we should expect them to make an appearance on the buyer's side of the transaction."

Kuryakin's mouth unconsciously tightened. "I meant Jonathan Knight, Napoleon. We've been in this business too long to realize that unmarred paragons of success don't exist."

Solo wondered how much his partner yearned for a stable family life or still envied those who had grown up with one. They hadn't spoken much, if at all, about personal matters lately; they hadn't been on a long surveillance stakeout where they could catch up for some time. That was the downside of seniority, Solo thought ironically, about his previous dread of such boring assignments. Finding the time to even grab lunch together back at HQ was an increasing rarity. "Really? They could say the same about you, _tovarischch_ , and believe me, they do. How did a little boy-genius from Kiev become a globe-trotting spy with a doctorate in quantum mechanics?"

Kuryakin smiled wanly. "You're not exempt either, Napoleon. I doubt that anyone besides Waverly and I know that you're not the prodigal playboy despite your supposed intimacy with all of those ladies competing for ink in your little black book. Your mother couldn't afford to stay a night in that luxe Québecois hotel she cleaned-"

Trust Illya to turn the tables when you least expect it, Solo thought, even on his friends. "An excellent point, IK. But hotel rates are of no concern to us for the present affair as we'll be renting out a condo near the project site for the next month. How exactly do you plan to infiltrate Knight's corporation and investigate the situation?"

Kuryakin immediately picked up on the ever-so-slightly strained amicability of Solo's tone. The Russian hadn't meant to come across as railing on his partner; the frenetic pace of the past few affairs had worn away his tact more than his professional self would care to admit.

"At this time of year, Knight Enterprises embarks on its main recruiting campaign. The understaffed research and development labs are a key player in this year's hiring initiative as so many have abandoned their old projects to work on the database. I doubt that UNCLE would mind if I picked up a second job that didn't use state secrets as currency."

Kuryakin's response gave Solo enough time to slip back into his slick persona. "The Knights will be attending a charity event at Stanford's Cantor Arts Museum tomorrow. I'm sure UNCLE San Francisco will be able to secure me an invitation."

The Russian nodded. "An excellent idea, but I think both of us should attend. I can eavesdrop on the technical gossip while you keep an eye out for potential competitors."

A smile quirked around the edges of Solo's mouth. "You rationalization is sufficiently convincing to join the party, but you know you only want to go for the _hors d'oeuvres_."

In a rare moment of laughter, Kuryakin couldn't bring himself to correct his partner's Québécois-butchered French.


	2. So it begins

_Cantor Arts Museum, Stanford, California_

Napoleon Solo sauntered up the steps of the museum, briefly admiring the silhouettes cast by the bronze Rodin replicas in the garden on his left. Solo's navy sports jacket and khaki slacks were relatively unwrinkled after hanging them up on the back of the bathroom door when he had showered. Traveling all the time for unexpected intervals, he had learned how to take care of his clothes on the road when he couldn't drop them off at del Floria's. Solo's San Francisco colleagues warned him against tuxedos if he wanted to avoid undue notice from the Northern Californians, who took the "casual" in "business casual" to heart.

Careful to keep his back covered by a stone pillar near the entrance doors, Solo noticed no visible security except for two twentysomething students checking in guests. Any guards would be inside, keeping an eye on the exhibits and guests who had too much to drink.

The two girls smiled as he approached. Neither of them were used to seeing a man younger than 35 who looked so at home in the polished surroundings; most of attendees were tech geeks who preferred to wear sneakers with their off-the-rack suits.

"Napoleon Solo for the Cantor Arts Museum fundraiser." He nonchalantly handed them his invitation, procured at the last minute courtesy of UNCLE San Francisco's string pulling.

"Thank you, Mr. Solo. Appetizers are being served in the front atrium. We hope you enjoy yourself this evening." The curvy blonde on the right pinned his nametag through the buttonhole of his left breast pocket, flirtatiously brushing off a nonexistent smudge. Her trim brunette companion, Jane Russell foiling Marilyn Monroe, shot her a dirty look that was smugly ignored.

Amused, Solo gave them a dazzling smile that would have made the UNCLE secretary pool more than envious. "Thank you, ladies; I'm sure I will."

Solo's smile lingered as he entered the museum; he could practically feel their gaze caressing his back even as the doors slowly shut behind him. Pity he didn't have the time to tell them about his javelin throwing days. Solo wondered how Illya managed to fend off the co-eds this time — how many times could he pull off the flimsy excuse of a familial history of insanity? Then again, Illya had a scientist's rationalism but also a con artist's knack for flamboyantly credible lies.

Inside the front atrium milled about the local patricians who frequented the pages of _The Wall Street Journal_ , _Business Week_ and _Wired_. The crowd dressed less formally than one from the same social milieu in New York would for such an event, but the air of money and privilege was unmistakable. His fellow attendees looked younger and in better shape than he had expected, but then again, the appetizers were all vegetarian Indian and Mediterranean delicacies.

Not that Solo was complaining as he enjoyed his second samosa; he wondered how many his Russian partner had consumed. Kuryakin was substituting for one of the servers, so he had probably had the chance to liberate a tray for himself before the reception. Event planners always overestimated how many hors d'oeuvres to order, anyway. An agent never knew when he'd have his next meal, but Kuryakin was more keen than most to take advantage of food-related opportunities.

Solo kept unobtrusively weaving through the crowd, keeping an easy smile frozen on his lips while scanning the room for THRUSH and the Knights. He crossed the mosaic sun inlaid on the floor, still cracked from the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake, and turned right into the Asian metalworks and furniture wing. Most of the attendees were focused on the silent auction items and bid sheets on the tables nestled in between the exhibits rather than the artifacts around them. Solo took a few moments to admire the intricately inlaid Buddhist prayer chests at the end of the exhibition hall before heading towards some delicate jade and cloisonné vases.

Solo soon spotted his primary target sipping a flute of Sauvignon Blanc by the foot of the spiral staircase leading from the Chinese ceramics wing to the Native and Central American pottery exhibit upstairs. Jonathan Knight looked exactly his distinguished 47 years, his dark mahogany hair graying ever so slightly at the temples but his emerald eyes sparkling with a youthful good nature. He moved with surprisingly agility for a techno geek, but then again, the same could be said of Illya Kuryakin. Still, the comparison wasn't quite accurate – Kuryakin's sleek grace underlied a tension that was so often released in a ballet of blood, bruises and broken bones.

But like Solo's partner, Knight looked vaguely uncomfortable in his tailored suit though he cut a striking figure. It struck Solo that Knight, for all of his years in the boardroom, never felt quite at ease in formalwear and preferred the casual Fridays of the R and D cubicle city.

Knight didn't seem to notice Solo's approach. The agent found himself rummaging for an appropriate introduction, almost wishing for a moment that he could've traded roles with Kuryakin whose expertise was better tailored to this assignment. Solo tried to recall some of the news profiles he had read in Knight's dossier. "Excuse me, you wouldn't happen to be the Jonathan Knight featured on the cover of the most recent issue of the _MIT Tech Review_? I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed that article." The man in question turned to meet Solo.

"Mister –" Knight's eyes almost imperceptibly darted to the other man's nametag, "Solo. Yes, I'm Jonathan. You have a sharp eye to spot me in this crowd. I hope you've been enjoying tonight's events." There was no hint of Knight's Brooklyn background in his pleasantly modulated baritone. Solo, feeling a little more at ease, unconsciously shifted his weight. Judging by the hesitation, Knight had not recognized or at least anticipated UNCLE's presence. The two men shook hands, their pressure of the grip comfortably matching each other. "Please, call me Napoleon."

Before the industrialist had a chance to respond, his wife walked over to introduce herself. "I'm Jonathan's wife, Catherine. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Solo." The lady spoke with the polished, professional tones befitting a BBC correspondent. Her diction was the product of a British boarding school education, common among those born into Hong Kong's elite. She radiated a quietly authoritative presence unhampered by her petite figure. Her naturally unlined skin gave no hint that she was only three days younger than her husband.

"The pleasure is mine, Catherine," the agent responded with genuine interest. "I'm not sure what's drawing the crowd here more – the silent auction, the excellent appetizers or your charming presence."

The corners of Knight's eyes crinkled in genuine amusement, and Yang revealed straight ivory teeth as she laughed. "Flattery won't get you anywhere, Mr. Solo, but please don't stop trying."

So much the better that they didn't seem interested in his work background; they were probably just relieved not to have another would-be start up founder deliver them yet another pitch. "It's encouraging to see so many donating their time and energy into making this event happen. I must admit, I had expected that keeping up with the steady stream of technological breakthroughs counts as a full-time job even when you're not officially in the office," the agent remarked.

"I'll confess that these events tend to be used as opportunities for informally checking out the competition. A number of the attendees tonight have initiated negotiations to buy versions of our newest project, although there are just as many dying to reverse engineer what we've done and release their own improved version of our prototype. I'm afraid I can't blame them," Knight responded, a glint of good humor in his eye.

Kuryakin suddenly brushed up behind them with a platter of dolmas and falafel, taking the opportunity to slip bugs on the industrialist couple. A small shred of grape leaf clung to the corner of Kuryakin's mouth, betraying to a sharp eye the reason why the tray was only half full. Solo resisted the temptation to break cover and brush it away.

Several feet away, John Drake looked up from his auction catalogue with great interest. His professional radar honed in on the dark-haired man talking to the Knights. Even with the artfully dim track lights overhead, Drake had picked up on the studied casualness of the man's approach to the couple. The steely appraising looks veiled by the rich sibilant voice suggested that he was probably a key competitor, perhaps some kind of industrial spy. The blond next to him was undoubtedly an accomplice of some sort. There was a subtle but unmistakable familiarity in the open body language between the two that could not be explained by ordinary friendliness.

Coming up from behind, Drake heartily clasped Solo's shoulder and felt the unmistakable form of a holster beneath the jacket. This man was definitely beyond the regular league of cutthroat business rivals. Was it his intent to take Knight out of commission tonight? If there were an assassination to be staged, Drake would've expected something along the lines of a drugged drink. Guns would attract too much attention, and this man was too much of a smooth operator to want publicity.

Time to break up the party before someone got hurt. Drake stole a quick glance at the dark-haired man's nametag and almost laughed. Perhaps he was wrong about a shooting – what undercover saboteur seriously called himself _Napoleon_? "Solo! Why didn't you tell me you were coming to California after we signed off on the Lampert deal two weeks ago? I don't know if you've heard the voicemail I left yesterday." Drake smiled wryly for a moment, sincerely hoping that the blond accomplice wasn't about to intervene. "Well, you wouldn't be here if you didn't. I hate to cut your conversation short, but I'm afraid there's a sudden hang-up on our end that we've got to deal with right now — " With an apologetic nod to the Knights, Drake subtly steered Solo away from the Knights.

Solo threw a mystified glance at Kuryakin and then at the stranger's nametag – gone were the days when THRUSH could be relied upon to use avian aliases. "Peter! Yes, we should discuss this matter in private." The American turned to Knight to hand him a business card but settled for a wave when he saw that Knight and his wife was now in the midst of a conversation with another couple. Solo could stop by Knight's headquarters later to follow up.

Kuryakin was suddenly waylaid by a particularly tipsy and garrulous woman who craved everything that was left on his tray, but he nodded to Solo acknowledging the sudden change in plan as Drake led him away. Somehow Drake and Solo managed to unobtrusively frog-march the other up the stairs and through the South, Central and North American Indigenous Peoples art galleries, both having the professional courtesy to keep the increasingly intoxicated civilians around them from being entangled into their business. They managed to duck inside a small, corded off exhibition room representing the admissions brochure prototype of the contemporary dorm room.

The two scuffled for a few moments in the artfully cluttered space, but Solo managed to succeed in pinning Drake's arms behind his back. Let him think he has the upper hand, Drake thought; lull him into a sense of security and he'll give away his game plan.

The stranger's current silence worried Solo. "Now, Mr. whoever you are, you have my undivided attention. Why were you so eager to get me alone?"

Drake wasn't quite feigning his discomfort about how far his arms felt like they were being shoved up his shoulder blades. "This is ridiculous, Mr. Solo; as professionals we have enough of violence as is. I can assure you that neither one of us will be able to leave this room against the other's will."

Slowly easing his grip, Solo's eyes never strayed from Drake. Kuryakin popped into the doorway, Special trained on the British agent.

"Whoever he is, he seems to be working alone. All the guests are moving into the rotating exhibits gallery for the live auction, and I didn't spot any backup coming upstairs on my way here," Kuryakin remarked. "Despite that pastiche he just tried to pass off as coming from Queens, he's definitely British."

Drake smiled wryly. "Irish, actually." He took his first good look at Kuryakin in decent light and suddenly matched the man in front of him with the memory of a photograph he once saw in a dossier. "Let me guess — you're a Cambridge man, though most Americans think of your accent as charmingly, generically European. You received extensive linguistic training, at least within the European domain, so that no one would ever suspect your foreign roots. Your old Russian military sponsors intended for you to receive more intensive training in quantum mechanics, presumably so you could help develop your government's nuclear capacities. That was before you were recruited into intelligence, where they needed more scientists. It's a pity they misprinted your name on the second passport, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin."

A lesser man that Kuryakin might've actually looked surprised; Solo's eyes registered a fleeting confusion. Kuryakin laughed, but his grip on the Special never wavered. "Which mole did you recruit to tell you that?"

"I've worked with Major Nicola Tarasova. Prior to meeting her, I infiltrated the officially unrecognized Hamden Colony Three that an extraordinarily paranoid splinter faction of the Soviet government used as a training ground for moles. The major confirmed that your name was on the list of potential recruits before it was shut down."

"Tell me, how has the Major been since widowed after that affair in Haiti?"

Drake snorted. "Nicola's still happily single. She emphatically told me that she never wants to learn to serve family-sized servings of _piroshki_."

Kuryakin lowered his weapon and walked over to Solo. "Major Tarasova was one of my Cambridge sponsors, but she currently acts as a liaison to M-9. We can assume he's with British intelligence."

Drake still had no idea who was the dark-haired man who had strong-armed him. "Forgive my personal reticence, but I still don't know who you work for."

"We're with UNCLE. You already seem to know quite about me. My partner is —"

"Napoleon Solo." The CEA turned to shake hands with the British agent, grip evenly matching grip.

"Drake, John Drake."

"Well, Mr. Drake. I think we'd best pool together what we know somewhere more private and go from there." Solo eyed the fuzzy oversized cushions strewn around the room with distaste. "I'm afraid this affair is far more serious than pillow talk."

Drake quirked an eyebrow as they walked out of the room. "I'm obliged, gentlemen, for not blowing my brains out at the first opportunity. Shall we?"

The three descended the stairs and strolled away from the reception, their shadows melting into the night as they headed to the parking lot.

  



	3. Safehouse Rendezvous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Palo Alto, California_

_Palo Alto, California_

"Where exactly do we plan on going from here?" Drake asked. "We can't all fit into your car."

They stood awkwardly in front of a black Audi coupe. The three men gazed at the parking lot as if it would provide them a way out from the uncomfortable crossroads at which they now stood.

"Napoleon, I know that you thought flirting with the rental car agent so she'd upgrade you to the two-seater was a good idea at the time, but he's right." Kuryakin studied his partner's shadowy profile for a moment. "Although we could always try the trunk."

Solo shook his head in disappointment. "He's too tall. Unless you'd like to trade spots with him." A quick glance at Kuryakin confirmed the end of that prospect.

"I'm obliged, gentlemen, if you'd follow me this way." Drake pointed at a forest green Mini Cooper by the entrance to the rock garden maze across from the museum.

It didn't look much more promising, Solo thought, but it'd have to do. "Gee, I thought your department was known for the Aston Martins."

"You're thinking of MI-6, Mr. Solo; I'm with M-9. I'm afraid our PR department has gone overboard with this James Bond business. He's a convenient cover for when we do have to blow things up, but I'm afraid my branch generally deals with far more mundane matters."

Solo looked dubiously again at the Mini Cooper. "There aren't any, ah..."

A smile quirked around Drake's lips. "I can assure you that there are no ejector seats, although admittedly I haven't had a chance yet to explore what might be in the glove compartment."

Solo's shoulders relaxed somewhat, but his eyes were still alert. They hadn't spotted anyone leaving the museum, and the check-in girls had been long since gone. The security guards were all inside keeping an eye on what had been bidded off during the silent auction while the attendees were in the live auction. Kuryakin gestured to his partner. "You should contact HQ to make sure our car isn't towed overnight, and then we can find somewhere to discuss matters in a secure location."

Drake stared at the pen Solo whipped out of his sports jacket. The UNCLE agent read the unspoken question in the gaze.

"This? Yes, it's a communicator, rather handy when captured. Most bystanders assume it's one of those personal recording devices that businessmen carry around so they can leave notes for themselves. No one believes we use these things anymore, so they just take away the cell phones. It's a little old-fashioned but convenient when you suspect that your phone is being tapped."

"Disposable cell phones are much scarcer and more expensive here than they are in Europe," Kuryakin added.

Drake nodded, unlocked the car and slipped into the driver's seat. Solo climbed into the backseat to check in, but not before he slipped in a special wireless headphone in his left ear so that he could privately hear the responses from headquarters. Kuryakin rode shotgun and gave Drake directions to the nearest UNCLE safehouse.

Solo finished his report, slipped the earpiece and the pen back into his pocket and leaned forward to talk to the driver. "UNCLE will be contacting your organization to let them know that we're collaborating." A clever power ploy, Drake thought, signaling who discovered whom first in the course of the initial investigation. The British agent wondered what dossier was being pulled up on him now. He needed to find a moment to reach Hobbs, but first and foremost he needed to find out what UNCLE knew and what their objectives were.

Several minutes later they pulled into the driveway of a modest Spanish Colonial bungalow in a quiet neighborhood. Drake and Kuryakin got out of the car first for a preliminary check around the perimeter of the house. Satisfied, they walked back to the front door. Solo got out and fumbled with several stones lining the borders of the snapdragons in the front yard before he procured a key to unlock the door. Kuryakin went in to open up the garage door so Drake could park inside.

They met in the dining room at the center of the house, conveniently located away from all the windows. Old habits died hard even in pseudo-suburbia. The overhead Tiffany lamp cast soft yellow shadows over the men at the table. Kuryakin walked into the small but cozy kitchen to prepare coffee for his partner and tea for himself and Drake. In the meantime, as the water boiled, Solo explained Waverly's briefing to the British agent. Kuryakin returned to the dining table with three steaming mugs as Drake recapped the original mission of Sachs. The exchange revealed only as much information as need, which was somewhat scarcer than usual because neither the UNCLE agents or Drake had much of an opportunity to investigate.

Solo stirred in some milk into his bitter brown brew. He found himself thinking aloud about certain aspects of the case that were clamoring for his attention. "The inter-agency competition for Nexis also indicates a certain degree of uncertainty about its security risk. Your presence confirms that UNCLE isn't the only one sending in field agents rather than technical ops to obtain Nexis. Other intelligence agencies are probably following suit but don't want to draw attention to themselves for fear of being spotted and compelling the competition to attain the objective before they do."

"For all we know, Thrush or some other enemy organization is organizing a sophisticated scheme to lure the attention of top agents and move them into the open to pick them off one by one as they probably did with Sachs," Kuryakin remarked.

Drake took a long, appreciative sip of his Earl Grey. Only someone steeped in British – or Russian – culture really knew how to make a proper pot of tea these days. "That's the short-term problem. If Nexis does turn out to be the genuine object, as I suspect that it is, we've got a much bigger security risk on our hands. If we gradually allow relative freedom of access to our own people, how much a victory are we securing for the moles? Security clearances will still be in place, but with so much information the chances they'll discover something valuable at the lower levels will be greater."

Solo picked up Drake's trail of thought. "We need to establish some measure of internal protection against our own networks, which to a certain degree defeats the purpose of Nexis."

"It's one thing to acquire Nexis and another to actually put it to use. The key question is how do we establish a balance and move past our current inefficient intelligence bureaucracies?" Drake mused.

Kuryakin spoke up again, hands clasped around his mug. The angle of the light cast deeper shadows around his eyes. "It's always a compromise: what you don't know can kill you, but what you do know can kill you, too, if it falls into the wrong hands as it all too often does. It'll be harder to feign ignorance when captured if now everyone can be kept up to date."

"Plus we haven't even begun to assess the potential for information overload. It's not enough to be able to store all this information but be able to classify, assess and prioritize it. We don't even know the full encryption capabilities of Nexis to do so beyond its apparent storage and information processing functions," Drake commented.

"For now, it seems to be in our best interest if we team up. We have so little to work on that speculation won't do us any good until we can get our hands on something material," Solo said. One didn't become CEA by long term strategizing alone, although his fellow enforcement agents tended to underestimate Solo's capacity in that area.

That way we can openly keep tabs on each other instead of wasting time and resources and risking embarrassment by sending a designated tail, Drake thought. They probably had slipped some homing and recording device on him during the scuffle back at the museum that he'd have to find on his clothes later. Drake at least had managed to tag Solo's left sleeve. He pegged Solo as the sort of man who would rewear his sports jacket on the job but while changing his other apparel.

Kuryakin continued where his partner left off. "We'll be more effective if we divide our approaches to this affair. I'm the best equipped out of all of us to infiltrate the R&D labs." He had discussed some preliminary with Solo on the flight over from New York, but it couldn't hurt to mention them again for Drake's sake. The British agent seemed to be aware of his technical background, anyway.

"I've already established myself to Knight," Solo added, "so I'm in the best position to explore the official business angle and check out the other competitors trying to secure a contract on Nexis. I'll see if I can wrangle an official tour or an audience with their chief technology officer."

The UNCLE agents looked awkwardly at Drake. It was one thing to collaborate with another UNCLE agent working on his or her own or even with an agent from a different agency currently on loan. But Drake was a lone wolf, the extent of his professional capacities unknown. Solo and Kuryakin had become so perfectly synchronized working together that including someone else – well, other than April and Mark – that threw off their professional rhythm somewhat.

Drake shrugged and took another sip of tea. "I'll follow up on whatever lead Sachs was pursuing. I might be able to cultivate another source on the inside who'll give us another perspective."

This mission was shaping into another long-term assignment abroad for Drake. Infiltrating the inside was his specialty, and it wasn't just professional hubris to say that he was cut out to insidiously worm his way to the core. Drake remembered hearing from Nicola that Kuryakin was too bright, a bit too quick tempered and a little too conspicuous with his hair to avoid notice, though he apparently enjoyed the more colorful undercover assignments. The British agent thought that Solo was too brash to tone down his individuality long enough to subsume himself to a role for more than five minutes. He had been able to pick Solo out relatively quickly at the museum gala, after all.

Any agent could be taught to play a part, but Drake thought it a mistake to treat a persona as just a mask. He also believed it equally foolish to so thoroughly inhabit a role that it became reality. He was willing to risk his vulnerability for having no one to lose, he had less at stake than the others save for his personal integrity. An unshakeable conviction in his ideals, though not always in his actions, kept him grounded enough so he could relinquish his personal identity for his professional one again and again as the mission required.

Kuryakin nodded. "Sounds good."

Drake took out a business card from his wallet and handed it to Kuryakin. "You know how to reach me, but I'm sure you have other ways in place should I lose contact."

The edges of Solo's smile disappeared into something unfathomable that Drake didn't really want to contemplate. "We'll keep in touch." The UNCLE agent passed over an official card of his own.

We certainly will, Drake thought, whether any of us particularly like it or not.


End file.
